Polaroids
by borogroves
Summary: A series of companion pieces to "Snapshots".
1. Selected Excerpts

**Disclaimer:** I neither own nor claim to own anything related to Glee (only Darren Criss, and only in my dreams). This story is for entertainment only, and is not endorsed by anyone affiliated with Glee and/or its parent company. Enjoy!

* * *

**Polaroids: Selected Excerpts From Two Weeks In The Life Of An Unlikely Wedding Planner  
**_Wednesday 7 August, 2019_

"_You're insane, Blaine. In fact, that's what I'm calling you from now on. 'Insane Blaine'."_

"Kristy—"

"_Or maybe 'Blaine the Brain'. Irony's hot right now."_

"Kristy—"

"_Seriously, I know you're like, Mister Romance and shit but this is the single worst idea you've ever had. Kurt is going to go freaking banana sandwich when he finds out."_

"Kristy!"

"_What?"_

"Will you help me or not?"

"_Oh honey, you're going to need all the help you can get."_

"All right. Look, I have a bunch of stuff to figure out today, but... come over for dinner tonight and we can get started."

"_You're not—"_

"Shut up, I'm ordering in. Seven-thirty?"

"_Sure. Yeah, I'll see you then."_

"Okay. Bye."

Blaine ended the call and tossed his BlackBerry onto the couch, scrubbing a hand over his face and sighing deeply. He knew it was insane. He'd known it was insane from the very genesis of the idea, but that had never discouraged him in the past, and everything had worked out in the end. Usually. ...Mostly.

As he sat down heavily on the couch, he picked up the thick scrapbook from the coffee table and pressed play on the stereo remote, feeling the need for some classic Katy Perry. He leafed through the scrapbook once again, making notes on the mostly blank page of his notepad, absent-mindedly humming along to _Waking Up In Vegas_.

_How does Kurt do this?_

The previous afternoon, he'd been entirely at a loss for something to do. It had worked out that while Blaine had a six-week break, Kurt was only going to be around for the final two weeks, returning to the States on the 22nd, after spending a month at Westwood HQ in London. During his absence, Blaine had discovered just how lonely and lifeless their apart was without Kurt around. Even when he was locked in the studio working on designs or around the corner in the kitchen making dinner, his presence seemed to expand inside the square footage of every room and make the space into a home. McQueen had spent most of the day alternating between sleeping on top of the refrigerator and rolling around on his scratch mat, fixing Blaine with his imperious gaze every time he'd tried to get near. Eventually, Blaine gave up and decided to clear out the hall closet where they stored most of their miscellaneous and sentimental belongings for which they didn't have a place in the apartment proper. He was unpacking the seventh box when he came across a square-shaped something, wrapped up in one of Kurt's old NYU shirts. He unfurled the fabric and took in the unassuming white scrapbook.

As he turned the first page, it became crystal clear that the book was different to any of the others Kurt had slaved over when planning events for friends and family. It was divided into two main sections; one for New York and one for Ohio. There were pages dedicated to venues; to florists; to jewelers; to caterers; to designers. Every base was covered—of course—and all of it was for them.

The idea itself struck Blaine later on that evening, after he'd briefly spoken to Kurt on the phone to say goodnight. He'd ordered in for the third night running, and was in the middle of trying to work out how long he'd need to spend in the gym to work it all off when he got to thinking about the English TV show Kurt had told him he was hooked on. An engaged couple were given £12,000 and three weeks in which to plan a wedding, the only catch being that the groom had to be the one to plan it, and wasn't allowed to have any contact with the bride (or the other groom, Kurt had excitedly told him) until the day of the wedding. Sometimes the results were disastrous—Blaine could have sworn he _felt_ Kurt's shudder as he recounted one particular Indian/Scottish-themed wedding—but more often than not, the weddings turned out beautifully.

"Why haven't we even started planning the wedding, yet?" Blaine had asked him thoughtfully when Kurt had paused, yawning. England was five hours ahead of New York, and Blaine's watch was reading 6:30p.m. "I know we filed our marriage license, but..."

"_I thought we agreed that there was no rush,"_ Kurt said quietly, stifling another yawn.

"We did. And there isn't. You're the last person I'd have expected to be so... relaxed about it, is all."

"_We've been together nearly eight years, Blaine,"_ Kurt replied with a light chuckle.

"I know. I just..." Blaine trailed off, burying a hand in his unruly curls. "God, I just want to marry you. I don't want you to be my boyfriend, or my partner, or my fiance. I want you to be my husband."

"_Okay, well... When I get home, let's set a date," _Kurt told him. _"We'll grab the calendar, pick a day, and start planning."_

They'd said goodnight soon after, but Blaine couldn't get the idea out of his mind. He'd logged onto YouTube and watched a few clips of the show, fingers drumming across the cover of the white scrapbook all the while. Somewhere around the sixth or seventh happy couple, that familiar ache settled back into his chest and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could do it. He could take the reins for once; plan their wedding and Kurt could arrive on the day looking breathtaking in Westwood, McQueen or Valentino with not a single thing to worry about.

When Kristy arrived at seven-thirty, he told her as much.

"Huh," she said, sitting back on the couch and picking at her khao soi. "Well. I gotta say, he's marrying the right guy."

"Not so insane after all, right?" Blaine quipped with a satisfied smirk. Kristy shook her head and waved her fork at him.

"No, you're still batshit. Just... sweet, and batshit," she told him, setting her container down on the coffee table and picking up McQueen from where he'd been rubbing up against her legs. "I have a feeling we're about to see just how batshit Daddy is. Aren't we, McQueen?"

Blaine grinned at that, and flipped his notepad to the first page.

* * *

_Wednesday 14 August, 2019_

**Gmail – Inbox (1) – blainethewayfarer (at) gmail (dot) com**

**FROM: **finn (at) hummeltire (dot) com  
**TO: **blainethewayfarer (at) gmail (dot) com  
**DATE: **08/14/2019, 2:14PM (EST)  
**SUBJECT:** Re: Save The Date (Surprise)!

Whoa, dude. Um, are you sure about this? I know you guys are like, crazy in love and all but are you sure you're not just like... crazy? Kurt's going to kill you. And don't worry, I won't tell him—he'd kill ME and then I wouldn't have your back.

I'll be there. Mom and Burt say hi and that they're worried for your safety.

-Finn

* * *

_Friday 16 August, 2019_

"Might I remind you again, little brother, that you're crazy. You sure all that hair gel didn't have an adverse effect?"

Blaine leveled Cooper with his best death glare as he dialed the number for Kurt's office in London and ran through everything in his mind for something close to the ninety-fourth time in a row. All that was left was to arrange the music, the decorations and favors, their attire (along with that of the groomsmen and bridesmaids), and the honeymoon.

"_Kurt Hummel's office, this is Olivia,"_ a voice came crackling over the speaker.

"Olivia, hey, it's Blaine," he began, speaking quickly before she gave the game away. "Listen, I need you to do something for me right now, okay? I need you to not let Kurt know that I'm calling."

"_I'm sorry, sir, but he's unavailable right now. I'll be happy to take a message,"_ Olivia said after only the slightest of pauses, and Blaine breathed a sigh of relief.

"Okay, here goes. Um... Olivia, I need to speak to Vivienne."

There was a beat of absolute silence from Olivia's end.

"_And what can I say the message is regarding?"_ she asked, carefully. Cooper glanced across at Blaine with one eyebrow raised, clearly enjoying watching his younger brother squirm, and Blaine had to resist the urge to hit him.

"I emailed you a Save The Date, so you probably know what it's regarding. Does Vivienne know?"

"Classy, Blaine. Could have used FedEx, you know," Cooper muttered under his breath, and held up his hands in mock defeat when Blaine sent another glare his way.

"_Yes, sir, that's correct," _Olivia confirmed.

"So she knows what's going on. Okay, that's good. That's great, actually, it makes things easier. I need to ask her to give Kurt some vacation time when you're all back in the States. Is she around?"

"_I assure you, sir, we here at Vivienne Westwood are available to answer your questions any time. If you wouldn't mind holding for one second, you'll hear our personal manifesto from the woman herself,"_ Olivia said, and Blaine found himself wishing he could read his hands through the phone and kiss her. The girl was an angel sent from heaven to make his life easier, he was sure of it.

"Thank you, Olivia, I appreciate this so much," he told her.

"_It's really romantic. I'll be there," _she whispered rapidly, and there was a short beep before the living room was filled with soft hold music.

"So you're about to talk to Vivienne Westwood," Cooper observed dryly, and Blaine's grip on the phone tightened. "Nervous?"

"What? No, I'm—"

"_Vivienne Westwood speaking."_

Blaine cleared his throat, fingers slipping on the phone slightly as his palms began to sweat. Not only was this Kurt's boss, this was Vivienne Westwood, one of the most revered and respected names in the entire world of fashion.

"Hello, ma'am, this is Blaine Anderson," he managed.

"_I'm not the Queen," _came the clipped reply.

"I'm—I'm sorry?"

"_I'm not the Queen; there's no need for that ma'am rubbish,"_ Vivienne said, her tone light. _"I understand you're planning a surprise wedding."_

"Yes, ma—I mean, yes. That's right," Blaine said, catching himself just in time and ignoring Cooper's soft sniggering from the couch. He was more nervous than the first time he met Burt as The Boyfriend rather than The Best Friend. "I was calling to ask if—if you can spare him, of course, I wouldn't presume to—"

"_Blaine, relax. Of course Kurt can take the time off. Now, what are you both wearing?"_ Vivienne asked, instantly setting him at ease.

"I'm—um, I don't... I haven't gotten that far just yet," Blaine confessed, and he flushed as if she was standing right before him.

"_Well, if you wouldn't mind my input, I'd like to create something for him. The thing is, how do we go about the business of fittings if he doesn't know he's getting married?"_

"I'm going to tell him, once everything's in place. He'll know before coming back to the States, Ms. Westwood."

"_Right. Well, that certainly simplifies things. And don't worry, I'll keep your secret,"_ she told him conspiratorially.

"Thank you so much, Ms Westwood. I don't know how I can repay you for this."

"_Well,"_ Vivienne said, sniffing dramatically. _"An invitation might have been nice."_

"Of—of course, I—" Blaine began, but was cut off by her good-natured laugh. Cooper was sniggering at him again.

"_I'm joking, darling. You boys have your day. I'll be there in spirit and silk."_

"Thank you again, Ms Westwood," Blaine said, slightly in awe and entirely at a loss for words.

"_You treat him well,"_ she instructed softly._ "Take care, Blaine."_

"I will, I promise."

As Blaine heard the line click, his phone switched back to the home screen and he glanced fondly at the picture of Kurt sitting at his desk, surrounded by sheets of paper with his bottom lip pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He looked almost lost in his own thought and creativity, and not ten minutes after Blaine had snapped the picture, he'd had a wave of inspiration that had resulted in a completed outline for his latest collection. They'd celebrated with the last bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape from his father's cellar, later falling into bed giggling, touching, breathing each other's air and relaxing into an easy conversation about things that absolutely, categorically would not be a part of their wedding, It had been nearly four a.m. before sleep finally interrupted their talking, and it was a conversation that Blaine had meticulously filed away in the back of his mind for later reference. Taking in the snapshot currently serving as his wallpaper, he was glad he'd done so.

"Anything else left to do today?" Cooper asked as he stretched his arms out ahead of him and checked his watch. "I'm starved."

"Nothing," Blaine answered, shaking his head. "I've got a few errands to run tomorrow, though. Suits, favors, invitations. The only other thing after that will be the dresses, but I need to wait and see how many of them can make it first."

"Well, since we have the whole afternoon... Feel like getting your ass kicked at Mario Kart?"

Blaine rolled his eyes. "As long as you brought beer. I'm not a complete masochist."

"It's a good word for you, though."

"Tell me about it."

* * *

_Monday 19 August, 2019_

Blaine had to work hard to suppress a grimace as he stepped inside the FedEx shipping center on Broadway and got in line, knowing as he did that it used to be an Anderson Shipping & Transit depot. He and Cooper had spent countless hours playing hide and seek in the storerooms back at the Westerville center, terrorizing the staff with pea-shooters and generally making a nuisance of themselves whenever their father had had to drag them into the office with him.

As he waited in line, hands of the clock behind the counter just ticking past the hour, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

**Kristy (9:02am):** How goes it, O Batshit Buckeye?

Blaine rolled his eyes and shuffled forward, tucking the envelope underneath his arm and turning his phone sideways to type out a reply.

**Blaine (9:03am):** It goes well—standing in line at FedEx to mail Kurt's invite. I continue to be appreciative of your concern for my mental health.  
**Kristy (9:04am):** Always happy to help a brother out. Gotta keep those ducks in a row and not turning psychedelic, y'know?  
**Blaine (9:06am):** That's what the Risperdal is for, remember?  
**Kristy (9:07am):** Seriously, though. How's it going?  
**Blaine (9:08am):** Everything's done, apart from the bridesmaid dresses—I know which ones, we just need to do fittings when everybody's here. You're still coming, right?  
**Kristy (9:09am):** Cake, embarrassing dancing and your super-fine brother? Wouldn't miss it.

Blaine quickly pocketed his phone as he reached the front of the line, and smiled at the middle-aged man behind the counter. He wouldn't be here for anybody other than Kurt, reliving the past in surroundings that had been stripped back to the skeleton and built back up, all of the Anderson touches swept into the dusty spaces between plasterboard and brick. Brushing his fingertips across the packet's address label one last time, he handed it to the clerk and paid for the shipping.

That was everything. All of the arrangements were made; he had done everything he could possibly do. As Blaine left the shipping center, shielding his eyes from the bright morning sunshine, he grinned to himself. In just over a week, he would be standing in front of the man of his dreams, promising to be his forever.

_Shit,_ he suddenly thought, stopping dead in his tracks. _Vows._

* * *

_Wednesday 21 August, 2019_

_**Bzzz! Bzzz!** 'Cause it's a beautiful night; we're looking for something dumb to do. Hey baby, I think I wanna marry you—_

Blaine jerked awake and immediately grabbed his buzzing phone from the bedside, heart in his mouth as he saw that it was Kurt calling. From England. At 3:04a.m.

"Kurt?" he rasped groggily, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"_Blaine."_

"Kurt, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"_I guess that depends on how you look at it."_

Blaine blinked once into the darkness, stomach twisting uncomfortably. What could be so very wrong that Kurt would be calling at this hour? "Baby, just—what's going on?"

"_I'm getting married."_

"Yes? I mean, I did ask you..." Blaine trailed off, utterly confused and suffering the full effects of sleep-stupid.

"_I'm getting married,"_ Kurt repeated slowly, _"next Wednesday, apparently. Care to explain?"_

Blaine sat straight up in bed at that. "Um. Surprise?"

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**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! Come and say hi on Tumblr **( borogroves dot tumblr dot com )** and join the Snapshots madness!


	2. Nutshell

**Nutshell  
**_This is how long-distance feels._

* * *

It's called counting up, not down. Down has always carried the wrong connotation; feels heavy and located somewhere below sea level. Counting up, looking forward, healing burns on fingertips that are forgetting the feel of pale, freckled skin.

Until next time.

A crackle; an interruption; darkness. An hour behind already and another is lost—even the cell tower is down. Down down down. Searching out eyes and smiles and touches by lazily flickering candlelight, skin tones warmed and smoothed. Waving a hand back and forth over the flame, close enough for a cool metal band to trap heat and sear skin in turn. Another arrow pointing north—the second on a day-old grid—instead of an X. X marks the spot, and these days don't match the one two leaves ahead.

Running faster and faster, feeling like a bullet train sucker-punching the atmosphere and outsmarting the clouds. It can't always be this endless, can it? Being physically young yet having an old soul, worn down with an eidetic flash of one last, watery smile disappearing through frosted doors, a vision burning behind membrane and capillary?

All of it goes both ways, and that is the only shining beacon—there are only so many who can understand the taped-up nutshell desperately clawing to hold itself together.

One leaves; one is behind. Turn, repeat the opposite. Drift through the ocean of interim in the azure before wheels touch back down and the world once more begins operating on an axis tilted toward the east. Harsh words rush to overtake a love with the power to break and consume like powder and fire at the meeting point. A connection cut but not severed, though the final thread frays.

And then, a book. A capital-B Book. Wrapped in brown paper, a letter and a photograph concealed within—a secret, for no one else. Something sacred has been created, and suddenly it's a remembrance. A universe, a planet, a country, a state, a building, a staircase, a brush of fingertips. A future traced back to the very beginning in a single moment, the brightest in ten months. It's an affirmation wrapped in brand new leather and age-old love.

Two leaves left. The weight of waiting. Being untethered for so long, the oak tree having uprooted itself. The clocks have melted and slipped like a Dali painting but now the six is where the three should be and continuing to turn in the right direction. The beacon burns fiercely with a new injection, and suddenly oxygen feels richer, more plentiful. The setting sun decides to rise again with no notion of a long dark ahead. It's easier to smile. Jogging to savor instead of running to forget. Surety and confirmation and promise all bound up with vellum and thread.

All it takes is one second, and then there's a lifetime swimming into focus. Close enough to smell, to hear, to taste, to see. Crack open, and the last sense will follow.

The nutshell breaks—one clean split down the middle—and there's a tower. Tarmac. A terminal. And finally, a touch. A brush of fingertips while looking at an antique pocket watch. The knight rises; the oak tree anchors. And then?

Life. Love. Everything.


	3. You Matter

**You Matter  
**_For knittywriter on Tumblr, who prompted "Kurt and Blaine have the "You Matter" sex talk with their children, under whatever circumstances, for whatever reason, at whatever age"._**  
**

* * *

When Audrey came home crying, her carefully applied eye make-up smudged and running, she tried to sneak past the kitchen and up to her room but even at his age, Blaine was still too quick for her. She sniffed hard, swiping at her eyes and looking anywhere apart from her father until he took her by the shoulders. _She's almost as tall as me. When did that happen?_

"Chocolate chip?" he asked her quietly, and she met his gaze for a confused half-second before rolling her eyes exasperatedly—_Kurt must have actually sat her down and given her a master-class in that one._ For all her quiet diplomacy and level-headedness, when something was bothering her, she became the carbon copy of her Papa.

"Dad, I'm fifteen," she said heavily, but turned and walked into the kitchen anyway, climbing into one of Kurt's trendy stools at the island bank and protesting weakly, "way too old for Feel-Better Pancakes."

"They're a start, though," Blaine countered as he tossed the now-burnt pancake straight into the garbage disposal and deposited a fresh ladle of batter into the pan, watching it for a second before reaching up to retrieve the fat pack of chocolate chips he kept for just such an occasion. Silence reigned for a few moments, until he flipped the pancake and scattered a handful of chips on top, and Audrey came to stand next to him to watch them melt into tiny, warm puddles. "What happened?"

Audrey sniffed loudly and tore off some paper towel to wipe under her eyes. As she screwed it up and tossed it into the trash, leaning forward heavily on the counter top, she let out a shaky sigh. "Ryan dumped me."

"Oh, honey," Blaine said sympathetically, sliding the pancake onto a waiting plate and pulling his daughter into a hug. After a second, she relaxed into the embrace and clung to him tightly, shaking with the fresh wave of tears that overtook her. "Here, come sit down and tell me about it."

"He-he said... He told me he loved me, Daddy," Audrey managed, hiccuping a little between her words, and Blaine squeezed her hand as they sat down by the island. "And then at the—at the party on Saturday he wanted to..."

Blaine's jaw clenched—he didn't even need Audrey to finish her sentence to know what Ryan wanted to do to his little girl. He closed his eyes, quickly counted to ten and let out a breath. This was all happening way too soon. Yesterday, Audrey had her chubby little arms wrapped around his knees, walking on his feet as he shuffled through the house to old Elvis songs.

"Were you safe?" he asked, and Audrey blushed to her roots.

"Daddy, we didn't... I didn't—I'm still—" she spluttered, and Blaine held his hand up.

"Okay. Okay, good," he interrupted, swallowing hard and examining the grain of the work surface in all of its minute detail. "So tell me what happened after."

"That's what I don't _get,_ Dad! He was fine at the party when I told him I wasn't ready. Nothing was any different!" she exclaimed, the frustration and confusion clear in her voice. "We didn't text all Sunday, but he had a huge paper to write, so I didn't... And then today everyone was looking at me and whispering, and then I found him hanging out with Luke and that _douchebag_ Trey, and they were all laughing and calling me f-frigid... And then Ryan just said, 'sorry babe, don't think it's gonna work out between us'."

Blaine wanted to _end_ this kid. He hadn't felt anger so potent in what felt like an age, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the counter. He was going to track Ryan down and wipe the smug look off his face—he'd never liked him, even when Audrey spent the entire week after he asked her out wandering around in a dreamy daze. Even when the look on her face had reminded him of the way every floor felt like a cloud after he'd kissed Kurt for the first time.

"Daddy, please say something," Audrey implored him, her voice tiny. "You have the crazy eyes right now."

"I'm sorry, honey," Blaine said, the bright anger burning out into dull embers that settled at the back of his throat. "You did the right thing, okay? I know it hurts, and that you probably feel like you don't ever want to go back there, right?"

Audrey nodded mutely.

"You did the right thing," Blaine repeated, thumbing over the back of her hand until finally, she met his gaze. "It gets better, I promise. Just keep Bianca and the girls around you and in a couple days, everyone will have forgotten about it."

"Okay," Audrey sighed, hopping from her stool and gathering up her bag. "Thanks, Dad."

"Hey," Blaine said, lightly catching her wrist. "Don't... When the time comes, obviously I want you to promise me you'll be safe and smart about it. And you know that if you have questions, or you're worried, you can talk to me and Papa, right?"

Audrey nodded, hooking her thumb into the strap of her bag and staring intently at the floor as her cheeks turned furiously red.

"I want to tell you something that your Grandpa Burt told Papa when he was about your age," Blaine continued. "He told Papa not to throw himself around like he didn't matter. And I'm telling you the same thing, Hep. You're smart, and funny, and beautiful, and special. You _matter._ Just make sure that whoever you... Whoever you choose, make sure that he or she sees that, too. Okay?"

Audrey looked at him for a moment, smiling a little at his use of her old nickname, and then stepped forward to hug him again. "I promise. I love you, Dad."

"Love you too, Hep. Don't forget your pancake."

Just then, the front door slammed open with a bang, and Oliver trudged into the kitchen, head hanging as Kurt stormed in after him.

"Room, Oliver. Now," he ordered, and Blaine exchanged a bewildered glance with his daughter.

"Dad, can you _please_ tell Papa that—"

"Whoa. Leave me out of this one, Twist," Blaine interrupted, holding his hands up, and Kurt's scowl softened by a degree. "Whatever the punishment is, I'm sure it fits the crime."

"Unbelievable," Oliver muttered, taking a soda from the fridge and stalking past his parents. Suddenly, Audrey stepped in front of him and grabbed his hand; Blaine noticed his bruised and bloodied knuckles as Audrey stared at her brother in shock and gratitude. She hugged him, briefly but tightly, and he followed her out of the kitchen with a little less slump in his shoulders.

"Band-Aids are on the top shelf!" Kurt called after them, a little guilt evident in his tone.

Blaine pivoted on his stool to face his husband and raised his eyebrows in question. Kurt let out a groan, stepped between Blaine's knees and dropped his head onto his shoulder. "Our son punched someone today."

"Ryan?"

"Yes, actually," Kurt said, surprised. "How did you know?"

"_Long_ story. I'll let Aud fill you in if she wants to, but trust me when I say he deserved it."

"Well, now I feel guilty," Kurt grumbled. "He's grounded for a week."

"Rightly so. He may have been defending his sister but he broke the 'no fighting' rule," Blaine said reassuringly. "And anyway, haven't we been saying we wanted to get out to the villa for a while, now? This weekend could be the perfect chance."

"Hmm. Sounds good. I could use a break," Kurt breathed, pressing a soft kiss to Blaine's lips. "We've done a good job so far, right?"

"Definitely. So good, in fact, that I think it merits a high five," Blaine said earnestly, raising his hand and wiggling his fingers. Kurt's mouth twisted as he fought back a smile, but he high-fived his husband all the same.

"Such a dork," he muttered, settling forward into Blaine's arms.

"You love me."

"Over and over."


End file.
